


man-made object

by leocey



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Escape, F/F, PTSD, Recovery, widowmaker character exploration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-01-03 21:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12154908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leocey/pseuds/leocey
Summary: she asks if you killed him.you nod. that's one question you can answer- you hated him. talon saved you from him.she looks at you in disbelief. she speaks."amélie,"she cries.you raise your eyebrows."what have you become?"





	1. i have the money, i have the means

tick, tock, tick tock.  
the machines never stop ticking. their rhythmic beeps are your lullabies, and the cords in your arms and face and brain are your pain relievers. they make it easier, they make you forget.  
they haven't been working lately, you notice. you feel a twinge of emotion fighting her, and you remember soft summer nights. you remember entangled hands, you remember leather and cigarettes and skin on skin. you hate it. you want to forget.  
you want to go back to how it was before, when you were numb and perfectly fine. when you didn't care about the wires or the enemy or anything, really. back when all you cared about was doing what they told you, and doing it right.  
you succumb to the sleep you so desperately need.  
tick, tock, tick, tock.

\--------------

you see her weeks later, while you're working in london. you miss all your shots on purpose and tell your keeper it was unintentional and she simply moved too fast.  
your keeper believes you.

\-------------

she approaches you the next time.  
she tackles you, you don't bother fighting back. you let her push you down, and stare blankly at her.  
she looks as if she's about to cry. you feel a twinge of something, before you don't, anymore.  
she asks if you killed him.  
you nod. that's one question you can answer- you hated him. talon saved you from him.  
she looks at you in disbelief. she speaks.  
"amélie,"  
she cries.  
you raise your eyebrows.  
"what have you become?"  
before she can say anything more, your comm scolds that you aren't at pickup, you should've been there ten minutes ago.  
she leaves.

\----------

you dream, that night.  
you dream of a field of yellow flowers, of a cloudless sky and a bright sun. of a chill breeze.  
a sunhat rests on your head. you have a sundress of some kind on- it waves in the breeze, flowing like water.  
she is there. she has on sunglasses and a tight-fitted leather jacket, her scarf whipping along with the beat of the wind like your sundress. she waves at you with gloved hands.  
she reaches a hand out.  
as you reach for it, the dream stops. the beeping you have grown used to replaces the ambient noises of nature.  
you forget the dream.

\----------

you sit atop an angled roof in london, this time without your rifle loaded. you're on stakeout- no need to take aim, yet.  
you watch the moon. it glows. it stays the same- it makes you feel... odd.  
you remember that moon. you remember being smaller, watching the moon on a rooftop like this one. were you ever smaller? this vision of you is a small, innocent girl- in elementary school.  
you don't want to remember any more.  
but, the moon never leaves. it never stops shining its white light down, it never stops reminding you of its existence. it doesn't let you forget the little girl.

\----------

you dream again when you get back. this time, of coffee.  
steam rises from the edge of a porcelain teacup. she tears three packets of sugar, dumps them into her coffee, and mixes them in with a red straw.  
you remember red- you like that color. it makes you feel.  
she has the sunglasses off. she is holding your hand- your lithe, stock white hand. your nails are done.  
odd.  
she whispers something in your ear. it's garbled nonsense, but it means something, you know. you just can't understand it yet.  
you wake up more pleasantly.  
you don't forget the dream.

\-------------------

 

you have the infrasight on, and are sitting on a flat roof.  
it's cold. you don't feel it, but you can tell, from the white dust everywhere and the way your breath turns to steam.  
you watch the woman you were assigned to work with betray you.  
she talks to your target for too long and destroys her comm- she lies and tells you that the target got away, but she put up a good fight!  
you know a lie when you hear one.  
but you don't say anything.  
you would do the same, for her.  
your her. 

\-----------

you can't remember her name.  
the freckled face, orange ski goggles and impossibly styled brown hair all come to mind with "her." although "her" is vague, it works. "her" isn't enough for anyone to know details. "her" is all you know, and that is okay. any more information would be a liability.  
you want to know more than just "her," though.  
you knew her name, once. it claws at your insides, the knowledge that you had, once, but you don't know now.  
they took that from you.  
you wish you knew more than "her."

\-----------

you are feeling more than before. you have a feeling the wispy, masked man has something to do with it- he always seemed to like you, and he treats you nicely, you suppose. you never particularly cared.  
you have felt need, you have felt confusing feelings of want. they have been all you've thought about for the past few weeks.  
today, you feel something new.  
you feel rage.  
rage is nothing like the ambivalence you're used to. it's like fire in your bones, blocking your throat with clumps of emotion and the need to hit something.  
you first rage after you miss a shot you fully intended to make- you hesitated. it's a light feeling, and you make up for the missed shot within seconds. the rage goes away, like it was never there.  
you feel it again when you can't recognize your coworkers. they wipe your mind of recent memories after some missions, and you can't remember the purple woman's name. you can't remember who the wispy man is, and it fills you with a sense of disgust. a sense of bitterness.  
you want to go back to being numb, after the first two times. being aloof is much easier than whatever this is.  
time passes. they put you in storage again- they do that whenever you aren't working.  
you come out when they need you again.  
you lay on your perch, still and unmoving, prepared to take the shot whenever necessary, as is your purpose.  
then you see her.  
she is in her casual clothes, walking around with someone else.  
you can't remember her name. you can't remember what she used to be.  
they took that from you.  
they took everything from you.  
they took you from you.  
fire comes up in your throat. you feel droplets of water slide down your cheeks, your body tensed.  
you punch the wall.  
hard.  
the lithe hand, the hand you use to shoot, the hand in your memories, crumples.  
you stare at it.  
oh  
\-----------

they are angry with you. they are mad.  
you broke. you self-destructed. you both missed the target and hurt yourself, and they are not happy.  
you will suffer for this, they tell you.  
they'll put you to sleep longer this time. store you until they've fixed you. make you forget, make you love their cages and chains again.  
you don't want that, for the first time.  
you don't want to become obedient.  
you don't want to forget.  
you don't want to forget her.  
you don't want to forget yourself.  
you want to thank the wispy man, with the dark cloaks. he's given you this.  
you don't want your mind to die again.

\-----------

she's in your dream, like always.  
you dance with her, ballroom-style. you have long, white, silk gloves on, and she's in a suit.  
"you have every right to be mad,"  
she says, whispered, as if she doesn't want anyone to hear.  
you nod.  
she smiles at you. she kisses your hand.  
"i hope things get better soon,"  
she says.  
you wake up in tears.

 

\-----------

you dream of a stage.  
you are in all-white, dancing alone. you sway and move naturally, each step intentional but unintentional at the same time. the dance comes easily, even though you don't remember it. when it ends, you feel satisfied.  
an applause erupts in the crowd. you feel exhilarated, listening to the praise until the applause turns to gunfire. he appears in the crowd, his corpse crawling towards you.  
he's in front of you- with his battered face and broken cheeks, just like you last saw him. like you saw him when you had a steak knife in one hand and talon's address, written on a slip of paper, in the other.  
he claws at your shoulders, grasping at the skin.  
"amelie, dear,"  
he croons, and the clawing at your shoulders becomes more intense, his fingernails sinking in and breaking the skin. blood flows out- not red blood, like most have, but cold, blue blood. your white shoulders are stained blue. your white leotard and tutu are stained, his hands grabbing at your body and marking you with your own blood.  
"why?"  
he rasps.  
you don't know.

\-----------

you wake up to your cords being altered.  
he is there, in front of you. the wispy, masked man you work with.  
you wish you could remember his name.  
"amélie,"  
he says, so cautiously.  
that was your name, wasn't it?  
"i am going to help you out of here, ok?"  
you look at him with soulless eyes.  
"what is your name?"  
you ask him.  
"gabriel,"  
he chokes out, grimly. he holds your hand.  
"thank you," you rasp.  
he leaves, and everything goes back to black.

\----------

you know your name for sure, now.  
not widow, like the keepers call you. not widow, not just your dead husband.  
amélie.  
you had suspected it before- she called you that, in your dreams, he did, too.  
it rolls off the tongue naturally, and it makes perfect sense that it's your name. how could you have forgotten it?  
you remember scribbling amélie onto a paper in crayon, and showing it to your mother- your name.  
it's always been your name, since you were small. then they took it from you.  
a-m-é-l-i-e. 

\----------

you dream of an abandoned house, with dusty windows and locked wooden doors. you sway on the wooden floors, making up your dance as you go, an oleander in your hair. the oleander has white leaves, as white as your hands, with little red accents like the rosy pink your cheeks sometimes get.  
a woman watches you dance, she claps when you pirouette, and scoops you up when you're done. she kisses your forehead.  
she frowns when she sees the flower.  
"my dear, those are poisonous,"  
she says, gently, in a language that isn't the one you use now. you remember it, vaguely, the accented words and the sweetness of it.  
"why can't i wear them, mama? i am not going to eat them."  
the women, apparently your mother, shakes her head.  
"my dear, you have much to learn."

\----------

you wake up to the sound of bustle and hustle in your chamber.  
they are there- the keepers, in long, white coats and purple latex gloves, discussing something amongst themselves and shifting papers around.  
you can't hear most of their conversation, but you do parse out _overwatch_ and _tracer._

\-----------

you've heard the name tracer before.  
you aren't sure from where, when, or who. but you know you have.  
it strikes a fire in your heart.  
another insistence to be free.

\-----------

you aren't sure if you choose to be here, or if they took you.  
you know you didn't like him. he was bad to you- he made you a housewife. he made you stagnant, he made you nothing but a pretty face who stood next to him while he gave speeches. they let you remember him.  
they let you remember being something else, before he whisked you away.  
you aren't sure what you were.  
they let you remember being picked up by a egyptian woman who trained you to snipe. they let you remember being a natural, they let you remember the way your fingers worked in tandem with your vision to never miss consecutive shots.  
they let you remember him taking that from you, making you idle.  
they let you remember hating him.  
they let you remember them saving you, before you became who you are now. what you are now.  
they tell you you asked them to help you.  
you're sure you didn't ask for this.

\-----------

you're awake, for real, this time.  
you are still chained to a table, and the cords are still attached to you. the machines still tick-tock.  
they are giving you mission plans, which means they will send you out, for the first time since you broke. they think they have fixed you.  
they haven't. but they do not know that, so you feign listening to them drone on about the mission.  
you aren't listening.  
you feel things, quietly, instead. you feel want.  
you feel a need to be free.  
but they don't need to know that, and you pray that they don't. 

\----------

they dispatch you.  
they leave you alone to stake it out, to watch. to monitor, like a human security camera. and you do, at first.  
you sit there, watching the apartment they instructed you to. you watch a woman bring a plastic bag full of vegetables inside the homey apartment, you watch her toss her keys onto the counter. you watch her dice the vegetables while listening to the news. you can practically hear the chop-chop as her knife hits the cutting board. she has a little dog, a little terrier. it rests on a cushion while she works, and she gives it a little pat on the cheek when it comes to her to beg for scraps.  
the door opens, again.  
a man appears- you can imagine his voice filling the halls as he walks in, his mouth opening into a big smile as he shuts the door. the little terrier runs toward him, yipping and yapping with delight, jumping at his work pants and licking his hands. he seems to chuckle, leaning down to pet the little rat dog while taking his suede coat off and hanging it up.  
the woman greets him happily, and he comes up behind her- he kisses her from behind, wrapping his arms around her and talking to her.  
talking to her about her day, in a wonderfully blissful and intimate moment.  
you feel jealous.  
you hate it.  
you hate this.  
you hate yourself.  
you hate him.  
you hate them.  
you hate this couple, so wonderfully intimate and loving.  
why couldn't you have this?  
why?

\------------

as you watch them, you mind meanders.  
it thinks of her.  
of how she could give you that- of how she could be all you'd wanted, and more.  
but, that is foolish.  
they own you now. you can never have that. you will never live domestic bliss.  
you will never be greeted with sincere delight. you will never have someone to talk to about the day, you will never have someone to make the mundane moments precious and intimate.  
you are their killing machine.  
you will never be loved.

\------------

you make up your mind on the third day of the stakeout.

\------------

on the fourth day, you crush your comm. you smash it beneath your heel like an ant. 

\-----------

the same night you crush the comm, you carve the tracker out of the tattoo on your back, ignoring the intense pain as you work with a swiss army knife you nicked from a convenience store late at night, when nobody cared enough to notice you are blue.  
the blood gets on your hands, but you don't care.  
you need this.  
they can't control you anymore.

\-----------

on the fifth day, you finish the job.  
you take the headset- the gray goggles built for murder. your infrared set, your looking glass of death.  
you rip its cords to shreds.  
you crush it with all your strength, breaking its glass and carefully manicured technology. you rip it to shreds, and along with it, you rip the corresponding enhancements in your wrists and neck to shreds.  
blood is everywhere.

\----------

you somehow know where to go. you suppose you knew this place, annency, they call it, in a past life.  
you find a safe house, somehow. one covered in dust, one with faint traces of mold. a safehouse with sofas that haven't been sat on in a decade and creak and groan when you lie on them.  
you find a medkit under the sink, and make quick work of your wounds. you lose blood.  
your fingertips are numb, your hands scraped and cut badly- your fingers are white again. white as they are in your dreams and memories. they are lithe and long, and the tools of your craft. your hands.  
your hands fade back to blue, and you hide your disappointment.  
you will never be that woman again, will you? you will forever be a ghost.  
you fix yourself up as you could, and pass out on the couch, ignoring its creaks and groans.  
you drift off into a comfortable, welcoming sleep.

\-----------

"you're back,"  
she says, delighted.  
she stands on the tips of her toes and kisses your cheek. she wraps you in a hug.  
you smile.  
"yes, i am,"  
you respond.  
you meet her lips. 

\-----------

she is beside you in the next dream you have.  
not she, as in her. she as in the egyptian woman who trained you to kill.  
that she.  
she looks at you, as you are now. bandaged and tattered, fatigued and ill.  
she shakes her head.  
"i never knew it would come to this,"  
she says.  
of her eyes is missing. a vacant hole exists where it should be. the hole has no gore, no blood- it is clean. her arm is in a sling.  
"i don't know what to say."  
she says, and then leaves.

you wake up, eventually.  
you didn't lose too much blood. somehow, the gauze you had wrapped worked and the disinfectant appeared to have been functioning, as well.  
you don't know whether you're happy, or sad.  
you unravel the bandages, uncoiling the stained blue and tossing it aside.  
you really do have blue blood.  
this isn't a surprise to you- when you smashed your fist against that brick wall, your vision had gone blue; your hands had been blue, not white, tattered and bruised.  
but, the blue still grabs you, if only for a second. the dried blood isn't the blue of the sea, or royalty, but the repugnant blue of sleeplessness, the blue under the eyes. the itchy blue of paranoia, the blue of despair and dread.  
you finish dressing the wounds in silence.

\----------

you decide to go to the market that day.  
you need food- at talon they fed you through tubes, never letting your sense of taste function, really. but that's changed, now. you can eat, if you want.  
you dig around the safehouse, through cabinets and drawers. you find a long, black coat in the closet, and you take it. it fits you, and it along with a sunhat, it covers the majority of your blue-ness well.  
you head out to the street, pushing your hands into the pockets as you walk. your heels (you never found shoes other than the ones your talon uniform included) click against the pavement, enunciating each step. you feel money in the pockets.  
as you wander, you take part in the good sport of peoplewatching- it's always been a pleasure, if not your job. snipers do watch.  
the passersby all seem very.. human. warm, and real.  
you eventually find a market, an outdoors stall-by-stall classic market. you remember these, somewhat.  
you meander down the stalls, taking a look at each display. red tomatoes, green leaves, lemons, limes, grapes, with the farmers sitting right behind them, with smiles on their face. most of them act like you don't exist.  
an old woman calls for you to buy her apples. many would call this "heckling," but you're glad to be approached, and indulge her.  
you buy two apples, red and shiny.  
"thank you, darling!"  
she croons in that romantic language you remember from your childhood.  
"you're welcome, ma'am,"  
you respond, your native language coming easily. it slides off your tongue like butter.  
you missed it.  
you buy eggs and some other vegetables, before heading out.

\----------

on the way back to the safe house, you see something odd.  
a cemetery.  
its stone columns beckon you, call you to enter, to peak inside and see what lurks there.  
you hesitate.  
then, you give in.  
you stroll down rows of the cemetery, reminiscent of the lines of stalls that made up the market.  
this is built like the market, but the liveliness is gone. the grids are not haphazardly organized in an excitement to sell, with stall numbers being irrelevant due to the excited rush of the customers. the rush of the woman getting a quick shop in before her work begins, the man taking his time for a week's worth of food.  
the cemetery is still. the cemetery's grids and numbers correspond to bodies.  
people go here with an intention.  
nothing sparks for you, really.  
until it does.  
a tombstone. a tombstone catches your eye.  
"amélie guillard lacroix."  
and next to it,  
"gerard lacroix."  
you trip back.  
you-  
you can't.  
you can't breathe, you can't focus, you can't understand. you can't process, you feel slick drops of water slide down your cheeks.  
you crumple.  
you barely feel your knees collapse, giving way to the weight of your shock.  
the name. the name is there.  
your name.  
they think you are dead.  
then you notice, they buried you next to _him,_ they buried you next to a man you hardly knew, a man who was gone constantly.  
they buried their memories of you alive with a dead man.  
you feel like you're suffocating.  
there is no body under that stone.  
you are the walking corpse that should be there, but, you aren't. you cheated death. you should by all means not be alive.  
you lay there for what feels like hours, defeated. 

\---------------

"what are you doing?"  
someone sneers.  
"why are you lying there?"  
"i don't know,"  
you say, exhausted.  
"what did you think everyone thought happened to you? you did just leave us,"  
she chastises.  
you nod your head, tears falling down your face.  
"get up, amélie. get up. don't do this to me."  
silence.  
"please, amélie. please.."  
she fades away when you blink.

\--------------

you wake up when it begins raining.  
you grab the bags from the market, fallen in the ground next to you, and leave.

\---------------

you eventually return to the safehouse, only to pack your things up to go.  
you can't stay in one place for this long, you know that. you're vulnerable like that.  
you pack your things. you don't have much, anyway, you haven't had much since you killed him. you haven't needed much.  
even if you wanted anything, they wouldn't let you keep it. you're sure.  
you write your possessions on the back of the receipt from the market. you haven't written in years, but you scribble out:  
_2x apples  
1x gun  
10x bullets  
1x coat, hat, glasses  
3x eggs  
1x green leafy vegetable (???)  
€4  
1x medkit_  
not much.  
you go through the list, everything laid out in front of you on the floor.  
you probably shouldn't keep the gun.  
it is talon's gun. you know it by heart- it's a part of you, an extension of your soul. the sniper is nothing without her rifle.  
but, it is probably loaded with trackers.  
you take it apart fully. you'll rebuild it later.  
you have four euros. you need to spend carefully, and sparingly. only on essentials.  
you aren't sure about the eggs or the food. you suppose you'll make yourself something to eat before you leave.  
the medkit will last you for a few days.  
you'll leave at midnight.

\-----------

you are leaving the city, now.  
you have a bag, a double-bagged paper sack that holds your belongings. you have food made for the next few days.  
you are currently on a train.  
you snuck onto it. you don't have money to spare for a train ride, and nobody caught you, somehow.  
even though you are completely different now, you are still just as ghostly as you were back then.  
you are the only person in this train car. you are heading to london.  
you will meet her there.


	2. i've been having the strangest dreams

they actually find you before you find them.  
you are resting as usual, when you hear booms and crackles in the distance; instinct tells you to run. but you don’t.  
you relegate yourself to hiding in the shadows, listening to the gunfire. observing.  
you see a flash. a blue streak.  
what?  
you hear a “whoa!”  
the streak fades into the distance as fast as it left.  
you  
you cannot process words  
is this real?  
are you this lucky?  
you are  
you are in awe  
you get up  
you go  
you go to meet her  
you walk into the open  
you hear a gunshot  
you feel a poke in your stomach  
you look down  
oh  
blood  
you feel dizzy  
you collapse

\--------------------------

brown eyes meet yours when you wake up.  
your shoulder is being pressed on, tapped and poked. prodded.  
she. she is there.  
you open your mouth to say something.  
this is the moment you’ve been waiting for. all you’ve worked for.  
“y-you?”  
you manage to slip out.  
she cocks her head.  
she is frowning. why is she upset? you don’t want her to be upset. you want her to be happy.  
“are you sad?” you smile.  
“I- am I sad?” she parrots back.  
“Amélie- I’m many things, I don’t know if sad is one of them.”  
“please don’t be sad.”  
you touch her face, and the world goes back to black.

\-------------------

you wake up on a bed.  
it’s soft. the covers are white. dull. nice.  
you try to lean up. you cannot.  
your stomach has been wrapped tight with bandages.  
you can’t remember doing that.  
“You’re awake?”  
oh.  
you glance up.  
there she is.  
her  
in all of her glory.  
she asks you how you slept. you don’t know what to say.  
it becomes awkward and still.  
she gives you lunch and tells you to go back to bed.

\---------------------

she takes you to an overwatch base the next morning. you knew she would.  
they have a doctor. they have soldiers. remnants of the old overwatch.  
however, they can treat you.  
they are professionals, and you are dangerous.  
so you suppose it’s fair.  
she says her goodbyes and the doctor takes you away.

\------------------------ 

you are alone, again.  
locked in a lab, with white walls and bright lights and a hard bed. with tubes on your arms, and monitors around you, reading your vitals.  
oh well.

\-----------------------

you can get visitors now. not the nurse, who delivers your food and water, but others who would want to see you.  
you aren’t sure why you need visitors.  
you left no one to visit you.  
you killed your husband. and then you killed your teacher.  
you only left her. the angel you couldn’t kill.  
you hope she visits. 

\------------------------

you have those vivid dreams, again. you aren’t sure if you missed them.  
you are walking on the edge of a rooftop, sliding to the beats of a jazz band down the street.  
thinking.  
you haven’t seen your husband in weeks, now.  
he’s been busy. with work.  
too busy to call.  
you’ve whittled the days away at headquarters. you play cards with ana and slipstream’s newest recruit. (ana usually wins. you’re sure she cheats.)  
he’s on the back of your mind, though.  
you feel an ache to leave.  
you moved to switzerland for him. you lost ballet.  
you can never go back to the stage. you can never become the star that you were destined to be.  
you will just be a housewife.  
all this, and you don’t even get a call.

\---------------------------

the doctor talks to you when you wake up.  
she and the scientist are arranging a plan for your living arrangements. she tells you she can’t keep you in a bed forever.  
she says you must feel antsy.  
she says that they’ll move you somewhere safer soon.  
you ask if it’s safer for yourself, or for everyone else.  
she doesn’t respond to that.  
you ask why she’s even telling you this.  
and then she’s gone as soon as she left.

\---------------------------

you dream about ana amari.  
you’re at the shooting range.  
she’s pressed at your side. her calloused hands guide yours to the right positions on a rifle- you are clumsy, your fingers are thin and untrained. the help is appreciated.  
she helps you shoot.  
eventually she moves away. you are to do it yourself.  
you focus.  
the rifle cracks. you hit the target’s center almost perfectly.  
you do it again.  
and again.  
ana claps.  
you have real talent, she says. you are gifted.  
you tell her that gerard would never let you serve.  
she says that doesn’t matter. that she’ll find a way. they always listen to her, she says.  
she keeps the stream of compliments going. she’s so excited.  
but you know better, now. you can have hobbies, but nothing too extravagant. nothing for yourself.  
you can dream of success.  
but, you are chained to the role of a housewife. you will never be anything more.

\---------------------------

they move you, like they said they would.  
a cyborg holds your hands behind your back. a cowboy, with his gun out, walks to his left.  
they blindfold you. they seem apologetic.  
you walk, without objections.  
your final destination is a dorm room on the wing opposite of where you assume  
everyone sleeps and lives. they take off the blindfold.  
the labs nearby are empty. the hallway is dead.  
they escort you in. the doctor’s there.  
she tells you the rules. no leaving, no weapons. your food will be delivered at noon. daily checkups with the doctor.  
they seem to all think you’re dangerous. a prisoner. you suppose you are.  
the doctor rambles on, as usual. and then she leaves.  
you have time to examine the room.  
the room is nice. it’s carpeted, and they clearly put a bit of effort into it.  
there’s a bookshelf next to the military-style bed. it is full of, as the word suggests, books. there’s a lamp on top of it, as well as two books and a clear case full of pens and pencils.  
the first book, you find, is empty. it has blank pages.  
oh. to write in.  
the next book is square-shaped. you open it gently.  
it’s full of pictures.  
there’s a photo of a short-haired girl you identify as her- she’s younger, here. her eyes are less creased, her face and hands are unscarred. she’s smiling at the camera, as she sits with a hand of cards in front of her.  
the woman next to her is yourself. well, who you used to be. she is lanky and pale, and staring at the camera with a completely blank face.  
she -you- also has a hand of cards. poker night, you remember. with ana and lena. where you drank beer, talked shit, and bet with paperclips.  
you look at the first page a little to long before deciding that it’s enough for now.

\-----------------------------

you dream of sneaking out. to use the shooting range again at around midnight.  
it’s all very cathartic.  
it’s easy to get into the rhythm of the gun.  
click, crack. click, crack. click, crack.  
you shoot beer cans.  
they explode. it’s very satisfying.  
you wonder what shooting a living thing would feel like.  
so, you find yourself aiming specifically at the man’s face on the side of the beer can.  
lining your scope up with the mascot’s forehead.  
click.  
crack.  
the can crumples like the rest. the mascot’s shining teeth and face are crushed in.  
you smirk, and it put it in the garbage on your way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, all! long time no see!  
> i've decided to go back to updating this in 500-2000 word chunks rather than expecting myself to write 5,000-10,000 words and be satisfied with it. so yeah!  
> find me on tumblr at smashbike! kudos and comments are appreciated!


	3. i'm the only one

you think about talon willingly for the first time basically ever. mostly just about your coworkers.  
you piece together the identity of the masked man with the billowing black coat after you look at certain pictures in the scrapbook.he’s in a photo on the second page. he’s cooking, smiling at the camera. you knew him, back when you were amélie.  
you didn’t know him well, by any means. he worked on the opposite wing and section of overwatch, and he was much higher up in rank than you. but you knew of him.  
ana knew him. she’d talk about how she worked with him, back in the good ol’ days, her voice touched with just a bit of alcohol. you can’t remember his name, but you remember his face. you remember brushing up against him in a hallway. nothing else, though.  
it’s not really your business, but you let your mind wander. how did he come how he is now? a wisp, a shadow of the man in the photograph?  
you’ll never know.  
you find yourself amazed that you aren’t satisfied with not knowing.  
you really have grown.

\-----------------------------

you soon regret your curiosity regarding the scrapbook.  
you skim the back of the second page. there’s a picture of someone you recognize immediately.  
her hair is red and short.  
she is dressed in a suit, with the jacket slung over her shoulder. she’s in the background, the photo was clearly meant to be of some other agent at a formal event, but she snuck her way into the photo inadvertently.  
you feel nauseous.  
you get the feeling she did this to you.  
you can’t remember anything specific. you never saw the doctors who operated on you clearly, and if you did, they’d never let you remember.  
but she matches up to that blurry, looming figure who put you to sleep.  
vertigo  
that’s the only word you can describe how you feel with. intense, pure, vertigo.  
the scrapbook falls from your lap. you hold your head in your hands.  
you don’t want to remember what they did to you. you don’t want to dig for memories, only to find pain, suffering, and harsh truths. you wanted to live happily. that’s why you did any of this.  
why did it have to be you?  
why did they have to do this to you?  
and for the first time in a while, you sob. you let the tears fall.  
your throat is dry. stuck.  
so you sob silently in solitude.

\----------------------------

you get a visitor (aside from the doctor) eventually.  
it starts with three quick knocks. you don’t answer.  
and then, a “hello?”  
it’s her.  
her voice.  
you open the door, reluctantly. she’s there. in all of her glory. you recognize the cyborg standing next to her. the girl on her left looks new, before your time. not a veteran.  
“doctor ziegler said you were lonely,” she says, upbeat.  
you grunt.  
she cocks her head. “see you’re still not a very wordy person.”  
she hands you a tray from behind her back. a tray full of.. cookies.  
“for you!” she sing-songs. “consider them a housewarming present.”  
you glance at them. you look up at her, and do your best to nod and smile.  
she waves goodbye, locking the door from the outside.  
the cookies are clearly handmade. they’re oddly shaped, like someone tried to make circles and failed, and decorated with icing that looks a little too thin for any actual decoration to be done.  
but it’s charming anyways.  
you hope they know you appreciate it.

\------------------------------

clothes.  
clothes were important to you. to who you used to be, you remember.  
you remember shoes with long strings at the tops that cascaded up your legs. you remember spandex leotards.  
clothes were relevant to your work. you didn’t invest all to much time in what you wore outside of work, just sweatpants around the house, and you really only left the house to go to work. and all you needed for work that wasn’t uniform was a coat. you just wore a hand-me-down suede trench coat from your father.  
and that was how it was.  
until he came along.  
then, you wore designer clothes. only the best, he’d say.  
your input was minimal.  
you were there for appearances. to be his trophy wife, his thing to bring to corporate show-and-tell.  
you tried to like it. you tried to love the attention, to look forward to the glamour shots and large crowds.  
in retrospect, you hated it.  
you hated the stuffiness. the fake nature of it all. the one-note, boring people. the uselessness.  
you missed the stage.  
but, what could you do but go?  
and so you’d go.

\-------------------------------

you never thought you’d feel romantic love, as it was professed by your parents.  
you never felt sparks when boys gave you valentines in elementary school. you never seeked out prom dates in high school- they’d come to you, and you’d accept because you needed a date and who else would you go to?  
gerard lit that candle, sort of. he was kind. sweet. you liked him.  
he took you on nice dates. he liked your personality more than your body. he laughed at your morbid jokes.  
you don’t remember enough of the beginnings. you wish you did.  
but you remember the sparks very clearly.  
ana dressed differently outside of work.  
you first saw her in jeans, tight-fitting jeans, with boots that went midway to her calves, and a black and white bomber jacket that was just a size too big.  
she was beautiful.  
her sunglasses. her face. her smile. her hair. her scars. her age.  
it struck with you. it all added together to make a masterpiece.  
something realistic.  
she- lena- was a factor, of course.  
she never wore makeup. she showed up to work as she woke up, her hair a mess, everything natural.  
she wore beat-up leather jackets, sometimes with the tags still on them from whatever thrift store she’d picked it up at. she’d wear plain white tees, jeans if she felt like putting in the effort, sweatpants if she’d lost track of time and stayed up too late.  
and it worked, somehow.  
seeing those sights made you feel like you were going to combust.  
why didn’t you feel that way around men?  
you can’t remember if you felt that way about him. your husband.  
you hope you were happy, if not for a little.

\----------------------------

you remember when you were young. third grade.  
you were given lots of valentines from the boys in your class, like every year. you were still short at this point, small, dainty and cute.  
you had stacks and stacks of valentines. but you didn’t want any of them, not even for the chocolate. (you only liked dark chocolates.)  
but there was a girl in your class. she had bobbed hair. it was thick, cut in bangs, and spread out around her face like a lion’s mane. her cheeks were rosy, her nose was perfect.  
you wanted chocolates from her.  
you never got them, because girls don’t give other girls chocolates, especially not in primary school. 

\-----------------------------

you used to go to the cinema.  
you were a teenager then. you liked to avoid your parents and their constant bickering and pestering,  
as well as just the emptiness of the mansion your father inherited.  
it was a house, but not a home. just a shell of one.  
the cinema wasn’t anything too special, after a while.  
you frequented a cinema that wasn’t really popular. so you’d sit there, in the back row, alone aside from a few old people who showed up whenever they were visiting children in town. and the cinema was nice, quiet. but it was relaxing.  
it’s much simpler than living life. the popcorn tastes the same, the day is always saved, but you’d be lying if you said things don’t look better on the big screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm probably just going to start updating this weekly, now! something like that, anyway.  
> comments and kudos are appreciated!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! feedback is my drive to continue :-)  
> find me on tumblr @ smashbike :-D  
> (also this fic's written by a lesbian, so when i write about comp het, it's from a wlw pov. not a straight author trying to write those expierences.)


	4. on your a.m radio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> memories

they interview you on the same day she brought you those cookies.  
it’s the doctor who picks you up. she walks you over to the labs, hooks you up to some things, and sits down in front of you.  
it’s a plain lab, with white walls and one glass window for observation. you can’t make out whoever is watching you.  
“alright, let’s start,” she says.   
the cords in your arms are pricking at you. you didn’t miss this sensation.  
she asks you questions.  
you give answers when she asks. you try to be specific.   
“how did you feel,”  
“i don’t.” you interrupt.  
“what? you don’t feel?”  
“no. not then, at least.”  
she taps her pen a few times.  
“then why are you here, if you cannot feel? what would make you want to defect?”  
you pause.  
“i remembered some things.”  
“oh? what?”  
“old overwatch.” you say, glancing away to avoid her eyesight.  
“your husband? gerard?”  
you laugh.  
“no!”  
“then what?”  
“never him. others.”  
she writes some things down, and after a few more questions you are escorted back to your room.

\--------------------------

the more you think about gerard, the less you’re sure he really deserved death.  
he was just.. there. he was a presence. he needed a wife, and he got one. he tried his best to balance work and home, and his work took priority over his wife.  
reasonable.  
but it’s so hard not to think selfishly.  
you remember wanting to get out of the guillard grasp. to leave the lineage. and he provided that.  
at the cost of your career.  
the more you think about it, the less you knew him.  
you knew him at first, you think. before he was promoted.  
but when weeks gone became months of absence, you would change. and he would change. the once smiling, comforting face would return scarred. more and more scars each time.  
you never actually ended up looking at any of the scars up close. he didn’t have time for that.  
neither did you.  
intimacy was a price to pay for work.  
so you would continue on, seperately.  
coming and going.  
you continued sleeping in a bed, only this time the right side was empty. you made breakfast in the morning, just one egg rather than two. you would send him a quick text, to which he wouldn’t respond, and carry on.  
and even when he came home, it was the same.  
you’d wake up to an empty bed. make one egg. clean up the blankets he’d left on the couch. don’t bother to text.   
and it kept that way, and your routine simply erased him.

\----------------------------

tracer visits again.  
she knocks on your door a few times.  
“i can’t open it. it’s locked from the outside,” you remind her.  
she giggles, and opens it.  
“i know we have things to talk about,”  
she says.   
“but those can wait! until later!”  
you glance at her from your perch on the bed.  
she has an old checkers set. it’s covered in dust, and the box is creased beyond belief. there’s probably a few pieces missing.  
you wordlessly crawl down from the bed to help her set it up.  
and so you play a pretty much wordless game of checkers.  
it seems odd. you’re not sure how much clearance she has to be in here.  
but the cameras on the walls, combined with the light knocking and “are you alright in there”’s every few minute seem to be enough of a failsafe.  
it’s a fun time. you beat her almost every game, but she takes it lightly.  
“we should organize some sort of, i dunno, checkers tournament!” she says while she’s packing up.   
“i’d like that,” you say.

 

\-----------------------------------

you have trouble with memory, of course. separating what is reality and what is dreams.  
is anything even real?  
blue women are not supposed to exist, yet here you are.   
it’s hard. memories are not something you can feel, something tangible- they are things contained by the human psyche, completely locked inside the brain.  
what do you even do to test that?  
how can you know that the red-haired woman poked needles into your arms? how can you know how long you were trapped, if the only evidence you have is your brain?  
and your brain has never been strong enough.  
your brain has been erased. all that was burned onto it was so easily destroyed, deleted, razed.   
all you are is a husk.  
the feeling of your finger on the trigger of a gun, slowly pulling back and releasing at the right time. was it really real? the click of the bullet, the sensation?  
are you worth redemption? what is there to redeem when everything has been replaced with nothing?  
you wish you could confidently point to the woman in the photos and say “that is me,” as they want you to. as you want to.  
but the past and the present seem to lie.  
you can’t imagine being happy like that.  
you can’t imagine ever being worth something.

\--------------------------------

memories hit like trucks crashing into brick walls. even still, after all you’ve been through.  
you would’ve thought the one-off memories of old occurrences would eventually hold less force. but instead, the novelty simply never faded away.  
you still collapse, occasionally.  
into piles of tears and snot, panting and shaking like a child.  
you’d still grab your own shoulders, enveloping yourself in a hug. you’d still cry yourself to sleep. you’d pretend the cushioned hold of blankets was someone else. anyone. just.. someone.  
and that was how it was, and how it would be. endlessly.

\-------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr @ smashbike


End file.
